The General
by Dismayed Critic
Summary: One would never have thought that he actually had a heart. [one shot]


A/N: Okay, so a very different portrayal of Lucius. I just got inspired while listening to this song (The General by Dispatch) in the bath. It was one of those hmm-lets-put-it-on-repeat-and-see-what-we-come-up-with things and well, this is what I ended up with. I'm not really sure if I like the ending, it's a bit too dialogue-y for me, but I should be studying for exams, so I guess that can be edited at a later date. Now read on my lovely readers, and reviews would be nice too.

**The General**

_There was a decorated general with  
a heart of gold, that likened him to  
all the stories he told  
of past battles, won and lost, and  
legends of old, a seasoned veteran in  
his own time._

The four of them used to sit at his feet listening intently to the seemingly intangible stories of the Death Eaters. He would glorify nothing and one may wonder how children with so few years could listen to tales of such mutilation, torture and manslaughter, but they sat on gleefully listening to who the "bad guy" would kill next. Of course, the four innocent children thought they were fantasy stories and always cheered on the "good guys". It never dawned on the boys that these epic fables were true or that the man telling them was one of the masked-murderers.

They cried when he told them the story of the Potters and vowed to pray for the little boy who lost his parents. They saluted him, commended him on his patriotic work.

_On the battlefield, he gained  
respectful fame with many metals  
of bravery and stripes to his name  
he grew a beard as soon as he could  
to cover the scars on his face  
and always urged his men on,_

His name, his money, his notorious manipulative personality earned him a reputation of the ministry's highest esteem. They muggle-borns and half-bloods feared him still, because of that abominable mark. He was respected with an Order of Merlin First class –he turned in his fellow murderers you see. But Dumbledore had never trusted him, he was all-seeing, all-knowing, but he was blind when it came to the matters of Lucius Malfoy; he still had his own school-aged rage for Octavious Malfoy burning within him.

Only his wife knew of the harsh marks on his back and face. His son saw them once, when he was a little boy –he couldn't understand the magic yet, he didn't know the hegemony power could have on you. His son had listened to the fables of the evil Wormtail and the ever-powerful McGonagall, he had heard the stories. But they were just that, stories. The boy was too young to understand that a few mistakes proclaimed in the name of recklessness and pride could stay with you, that they could be fatal and scarring.

He wanted to be the father he had never had, he wanted his son to look up to him as a powerful yet understanding figure. And he was just that to Draco, because Draco wasn't allowed in the East Wing after dark, because Draco had to stay in his own room when there was a thunderstorm, because his mother would come to him if the thunder was too "scawy". Because he didn't want his son to see the nightmares which still plagued him, because his son could never know that he had sold his soul to the Devil.

When orders started coming in –the diary, the Quidditch World Cup, the quidditch matches at Hogworts, he could not hide it any longer. He told Draco on his eleventh birthday, that the fables of his childhood were real, and the he was on the "bad" side. Draco didn't talk to him for a month.

But his son soon became a mirror of his teenage self, an arrogant, supercilious bastard with far too much pride in his blood.

_But on the eve of a great battle  
with the infantry in dream  
the old general tossed in his sleep  
and wrestled with its meaning  
he awoke from the night  
just to tell what he had seen  
and walked slowly out of his tent,_

"Malfoy! Get up you lazy cow!" a voice bleed into his nightmare, but its sharp contrast from the screams woke him instantly.

"It's tonight you fool. Gather your ickle-kiddies. You'll be leading them tonight."

"Next time you see it necessary to wake me in such a derogatory manner, don't. I'll crucio your arse to Argentina and back."

_All the men held tall with their  
chests in the air, with courage in  
their blood and a fire in their stare  
it was a gray morning and they all  
wondered how they would fare  
till the old general told them to go home_

The four lined up in front of him. But instead of gleeful, expectant expressions, he was met with fierce courageous eyes all burning with hate.

This wasn't how he wanted it to be. He wanted to save them from this fate, he still could.

"Mr. Malfoy? What do we need to do?"

"Pack, Mr. Zabini, pack."

"Father?"

"All of you. Pack and get out. Go to your homes, go to the mountains. You are not coming with us."

"But-"

"Gregory, you will pack or your father will hear of your disobedience."

"Yes sir."

_I have seen the others  
and I have discovered  
that this fight is not worth fighting  
I have seen their mothers  
and I will no other  
to follow me where I'm going,_

"All four of you know that this battle is already lost."

"We don't know anything."

"Draco. You are not capable of dueling against these wizards. They aren't daft, they have spies, they know we are attacking tonight and they are prepared. You aren't catching a helpless muggle you insolent child!"

"Father."

"You never wanted to be on this side. You used to boo him, all of you did. You vowed to throw rocks at him if you ever met him, but instead you fell to your knees and kissed his robes."

"You've gone bloody daft."

His heart sunk to hear his son speaking back to him in this manner. He had always hoped that he would break away, that Potter or Granger or Weasley would convince him that he was in the wrong, that this fight was not worth fighting. He had always hoped to find a letter on his only son's bed proclaiming his love for a mudblood, and that he was going against his family. He prayed for it.

_Take a shower, shine your shoes  
you got no time to lose  
you are young men you must be living  
go now you are forgiven_.

"You are too young to die today. Pack your trunks and go home."

"Father-"

"You won't get in trouble."

"Mr. Malfoy-"

"Vincent, you will not get in trouble."

"He'll never forgive you father."

"I don't need that bastard's forgiveness, he's already dead. _You_ have _my_ forgiveness, now get out. You're too young to die, you have your whole bloody life ahead of you and you're willing to throw it away for a maniac with a grudge? You have to live and pick up the pieces, your mothers need you. The world needs you."

_But the men stood fast with their  
guns on their shoulders not knowing  
what to do with the contradicting orders  
the general said he would do his own  
duty but would not extend it not further  
the men could go as they pleased._

The boys had been prepared for this fight since they were eleven years old. The battle was inevitable and they wanted to be a part of it. They were always told to be ready for it, to jump into battle whenever it was expected. But this time, they were being told to leave, that it was too dangerous. It didn't make sense to their seventeen year old minds.

He watched the four boys solemnly, knowing full well that this would be the last time he ever saw them. Vincent, Gregory and Blaise were sons to him. He had watched them grow up much like his own son.

Draco had a fierce fire waging in his eyes, one that Lucius faintly remembered in his own eyes. But it was gone now –dulled by murders and frozen by hatred.

"I have no choice. I will die today, but you will not. Not a single one of you."

_Not a man moved, their eyes glazed  
straight ahead till one by one they  
stepped back and not a word was said  
and the old general was left with his  
own words echoing in his head  
he then prepared to fight._

He had never spoken with such passion, his voice had never quavered before. And somehow, the boys understood. He never would have told the stories of McGonagall and Wormtail if he didn't want them to have an unbiased opinion. He never would have let them pray for Potter if he had wanted them to hate him.

Scars came to Draco's mind, and he faintly wondered if the scars he had seen all those years ago on his fathers back had anything to do with the orders he was giving them.

Slowly he turned towards his trunk and began packing his things. The others followed suit and quickly apparated away. Lucius would never know where they went, but they were safe now.

His own words reverberated in his mind and he slightly wondered if_ he_ was too young to die, but all thoughts were pushed away when the bright red light flashed in front of his eyes.

The "good guy's" had gotten to them first.

_I have seen the others  
and I have discovered  
that this fight is not worth fighting  
I have seen their mothers  
and I will no other  
to follow me where I'm going_,

He killed only a few, none on the opposing "team", before Voldemort killed him. Traitor was the last thing he heard, and he died with a smile on his face.

He had always wanted to commit treason on his lord, but he was never brave enough.

_Take a shower, shine your shoes  
you got no time to lose  
you are young men you must be living  
go now you are forgiven,_

"Did you know he killed Bellatrix Lestrange?"

"I heard he was really a spy for Dumbledore, that all that time in Azkaban was just a cover, he was really doing undercover work."

"That doesn't make him any less of a bastard."

"I heard that it wasn't really him, that someone from the Order was using Polyjuice Potion to spy."

"That's enough! Lucius Malfoy was not a spy, but nor was he a bastard. He did some bad things, but his impeccable timing won us the war; if Voldemort hadn't turned to kill him, Harry may have been killed before he even fired a curse. You can speak ill of some of the dead, but not him. One might even go as far as calling him a hero."

"Sorry Hermione."

"Yeah, sorry."

She sighed in frustration, she knew very well that the second she turned her back to leave the Hall, they would be at it again.

"I heard-"

How right she was.

"Thanks Granger."

"For what?"

"My father wasn't really a bastard."

"I know."

"Er… he would have liked that little speech. He always wanted to be someone's hero."

_Go now you are forgiven._


End file.
